And if I Kill You Now?
by Alysun
Summary: It's dark. It's late. And there's someone on the prowl at Hogwarts.... (chara. study from book extract)


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This is slightly odd, but then so am I, or so I'm told. . . Disclaimer: not mine, none of it mine! * shifts all blame onto JKR * go flame her, if it's that bad. . .Rating: PG, just for suggested slash. . .Spoilers: Book III. Oh, and thanks to Blonde Ditz for helping me with the summary. 

Now you go off and read it, then review. . . ^^

Alysun.

And If I Kill You Now?

The halls of Hogwarts were quiet and empty. 

The dark passage ways were lit dimly by only the occasional wall torch and the slanting silver moon light that shone through the windows. Down one of these peaceful passages did He walk. He was a man of considerable stature, though He was painfully thin, His hair was long and straggling, unkept to an extreme. 

In His hand was a knife. Just a common or garden kitchen knife, with a black handle and a sharp, broad blade that glimmered in the torch light. He held it tightly in His right hand, to blade before Him. In His other hand, He held a ragged piece of parchment, on which a list of seemingly random medieval words were written in slightly babyish handwriting. The grey robes that hung of His skeletal figure were ragged and worn, falling a couple of centimetres short of His ankles at least. His feet were bare. His eyes darted from side to side, periodically looking behind Him, betraying His fear and paranoia of being discovered unaccounted for in the dark halls. 

He paused. Was that a door? He felt His heart beat faster in his chest, straining His ears for the sound, and tightening the grip on the knife until His knuckles were white. The few seconds He stood there for seemed like an eternity to Him as He waited. 

Nothing.

The corridors were truly empty at this hour, it seemed. The Witching hour, as it was so called. He had been there before, oh, so many times and so many years ago. Every step was a memory. Every flickering shadow was a recollection. Every closed door was a door closed on past happenings, every sleeping portrait reminded Him of past doings. Nostalgia threatened to engulf Him, making Him want to be able to re-explore the sprawling castle more openly, making Him want to sit in a golden haze of memories lost forever. 

The friendship had been broken. 

The memories could never be recalled and re-enacted. 

But they could be avenged. 

He narrowed His eyes as he blocked out the past and concentrated on His mission, a mission that would end in murder - one, maybe even two. Though while the first would be a murder of good faith, a deserved murder, the second would be one of misunderstandings and deep set mistrust of Him. 

The friendship had broken. 

It would be avenged. 

True to the name He had been affectionately been given by His companions in their youth, He padded up a set of stairs silently, careful not to make a sound that might wake the dozing portraits, or the alert the wandering ghosts. 

Especially Peeves. The man smiled momentarily at another golden memory, a trick played on Peeves by His best friends and Himself. 

He shook His head to free himself, and moved swiftly on, and reached the top of the stairs discreetly, no more noticed than a fleeting shadow. There was less light up here; not that it mattered. He could find his way to His destination blindfolded with His hands tied. It was a path He had taken hundreds of times prior, albeit many years before.

It would be avenged. 

And soon. His heart's pace quicken again as he neared his goal, His dark eyes sparkling with a dark light. He glanced again at the worn scrap of parchment and stopped in front of one of the many sleeping portraits, a knight and his over fed pony. 

He hesitated, doubting for the first time what he was doing. 

What would James have thought?

If it wasn't for _him_, He wouldn't be standing here in the first place. His brow furrowed. _Mustn't think of James now. It's for James I'm doing this. Moony doesn't know, or suspect. I have to do this. For James. _

He swallowed His worries and moved to wake the slumbering knight in the painting. 

"Psst!" He hissed. 

"Mhmhmm," came the mumbled and sleepy reply. 

"Wake up. I need to get up into the tower!" 

"Password?" 

He looked again at the scrap of parchment, and recited the list of words to the armoured figure that stood in front of him. 

He finished his recital and glared up defiantly at the stationary portrait.

"Alright, alright, you mangy cur, in you go. . ." the knight muttered reluctantly, and the portrait swung aside to reveal the Gryffindor Common Room. 

He stepped in and walked a few steps before stopping, the portrait swinging shut behind him. 

It was like coming home again. . .so little had changed in his years of absence. . .

There were the best chairs by the fire, usually taken by the upper years, whilst the groups of chairs huddled in corners were occupied by first and second years. . .the middle of the room held claim to tables, which was were the third and fourth years seemed to live. 

Or at least, that was how it used to be. 

The dark room was empty now, lighted only by the silver light of the moon - the fire had long gone out, by the looks of things. 

His eyes glazed over as He sunk into a daze of reminiscence, remembering how He had sat with James by the fireside. . .how they had talked together, alone, without the others. . .how he, James, had told Him of his love of the pretty Lily. . .

. . .how He had felt so crushed by this. 

But then, it was to be expected, realistically. 

Just because He felt. . ._things_. . . for James, it didn't automatically mean that James felt . . .things. . .for Him. 

But. . .before that night, He had hope, a secret dream, a private fantasy that some day, James would come to Him, possibly upset about something? And ask for Him comfort, and for something more than friendship. . .

But no. It had never happened, and He supposed that it was stupid to imagine that it ever would. James wanted Lily, and eventually, it came to light that Lily wanted James too. 

The waves of jealousy He had felt then! It was ridiculous, even to think about - He had never felt any jealousy before in his life, until then. 

So He improvised. He pretended that He was delighted that Lily and James had got together, like Moony and Wormtail had been. He laughed and joked, like He had always done, but deep down inside, he hated and resented every word that Lily Evens uttered, every smile she shared with James, every kiss she showered him with. 

It hadn't lasted, His hate. It slowly diminished in time, when He realised how happy she made James. . .He started to accept her for one of the group, and His burning jealousy-induced hate crumbled into a fraternal feeling of mutual love for James. 

She had never known His feelings towards her boyfriend, nor had either of the others. It would have spoiled the sheer perfection of the friendships. 

Of course, however much He lied to Himself, and told Himself firmly that He felt Nothing for James, _nothing _what-so-ever other than friendship, it was always there. Lurking. Skulking within the black hole in His mind, making every smile that James sent Him a bouquet of flowers, making every frown a dark storm, or the blackest curse to His name. 

Eventually, they had left here. . .Hogwarts, and moved on. Lily and James had got married. Even then, years after His initial infatuation, it hurt Him, though He agreed to be the best man. He remained single and unmarried, despite the numerous unwanted, unloved girlfriends He showered with flowers and chocolates. 

All He had wanted was James. 

Dark times came, Voldemort rose to his fullest powers, casting his shadow over the land. Curse after killing curse exterminated families of friends, close and distant, until the evil eyes of Voldemort rested on the Potters. 

He remembered clearly the night that James had told Him of Dumbledore's news. He remembered how James had explained quickly the plan that had been made up, the spell that would be used. 

The Fidelius Charm. 

James had wanted Him to be their Secret Keeper. 

After thought, He had declined, and outlined a better plan. 

Well.

It had seemed like a better plan. 

To use Wormtail instead! Voldemort would surely realise that the Fidelius Charm had been used, and think that He would be the Secret Keeper. But if they used Wormtail. . .

So arrangements were made, and Wormtail became the Potters Secret Keeper, keeping their hiding place in Godric's Hollow hidden in the depths of his soul. 

Of course, on reflection, he thought, Wormtail never did have much soul. 

Barely a week had gone by when Wormtail betrayed them, and then framed Him. 

The audacity! 

Part of Him urged resentment of His past honour, telling Him that He should have transformed into His dog form there and then, to go after Wormtail and take his revenge on him immediately, and then evaded the panicked spells and curses of the Ministries hit squad. 

The only thing that had really stopped Him was the deep felt apathy, the feeling that He had no longer got reason to live. The feeling that it was His fault any way. 

The memory of the burning shell that had once been Godric's Hollow burned in His mind as He had been taken away, and He had laughed at the irony of it. It had been seen as madness on His part, and maybe it had been. 

Avenged. 

And now. Tearing His eyes from the empty room, He crept up the stairs to the boy's dormitories, and entered one. The room that held his nemesis. He gave a grim smile at the melodramatic term, although it was more than accurate. 

Five beds. 

Five sleeping boys. 

One sleeping rat. 

He adjusted His hold on the knife, and approached the bed he had been told was that of the rat's owner. 

Silently, he drew the curtain back, and looked down at the sleeping boy. He recognised the face to be that of the boy on the photograph he had seen on the Minister's paper. 

Ronald Weasley. 

And his pet rat. 

Breathing little, His eyes swept over the bed, and He spotted the dozing, over fed figure of Wormtail on the pillow, by the ginger hair of it's owner. 

He paused again. 

Should he really do this? When Voldemort rose to power again, would Wormtail go back, and betray again? 

What would happen if he didn't kill the unsuspecting rat? 

Would he turn over a new leaf, realise what he had done wrong? 

"And if I kill you know?" He breathed. 

Realise what he had done wrong? Never. He wouldn't live to. 

He raised the knife, preparing to bring it down, hard, into the little, grey figure. 

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGHHHHH! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

He bolted, first taking a step back, and then dashing from sight, back down the staircase, out of sight from the terrified eyes of the woken boy. Above him, he heard the mumbled, sleepy inquires, and thumps as Ron gathered an audience. 

Heart beating impossibly fast, he made it out into the deserted corridor, where he transformed. He felt safer in his canine form - if he was found, he would be taken to be a stray dog. He was thin enough to be accepted as one. 

He bounded down the next set of stairs, out side the portrait, down through the corridor, out into the Great Hall, through to the Entrance hall, out of the door, and into the grounds. 

His great, black figure sank into the shadows disguised by the night, hidden by the trees of the Forbidden Forest. 

Next time, he wouldn't wait. 

Next time, he wouldn't give Wormtail a second chance, nor would he give him the benefit of the doubt.

Next time, Wormtail would die. 

And there would be a next time. 

The friendship had broken. 

Love had been lost. 

James _would_ be avenged. 

By him. 

By Sirius Black. 


End file.
